Chapter 2 – Mike
“They’re not listening to reason.”
Sergei’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the SUV.
I keep my gaze on the city sliding past the tinted window as we move through late-evening traffic.
This city at night is a strange place.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too American.
“They never do,” I say calmly.
Sergei snorts from the driver’s seat. “You’d think after three dead men they might consider it.”
I shift slightly in the backseat, resting one arm along the leather door. “Who died today?”
“Petrov’s nephew.”
“Hm.”
That explains the escalation.
Sergei glances at me through the rearview mirror. “You don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
Petrov’s nephew was reckless. Loud. The type of man who believes fear is a substitute for intelligence.
Men like that rarely live long.
Sergei continues, “The Volkov family says they didn’t order the hit.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
I tap my fingers lightly against the armrest. “Then someone wants the war.”
Sergei nods once. “That’s what I think too.”
Outside, neon signs streak across the window glass in blurred colors.
Bars.
Gas stations.
Cheap motels.
The city pretends to be civilized.
But like every other city in the world, its real business happens in the shadows.
“Petrov believes the Volkovs are lying,” Sergei continues. “He’s mobilizing his men.”
“How many?”
“Twenty confirmed. Maybe more.”
I consider that quietly.
Twenty men is not retaliation.
Twenty men is a message.
“And the Volkov response?”
“Waiting.”
“Smart.”
Sergei shifts gears as we pass under a bridge. “They’re waiting for you.”
That almost makes me smile.
Of course they are.
As a negotiator, for the last five years, I’ve been the man crime families call when they want bloodshed to stop without losing face.
Negotiation is a delicate art.
Criminals rarely trust peace.
But they trust power.
And they trust results.
Sergei glances back again. “You’re meeting them tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“You think you can stop this?”
“Yes.”
Because this feud isn’t about revenge.
It’s about perception.
And perception is easier to manipulate than truth.
The SUV slows as we approach a red light.
Sergei taps the steering wheel once, thinking. “You know what Petrov told my contact?” he says.
“What?”
“He said if Volkov doesn’t kneel, he’ll burn half the city to the ground.”
I finally look up from the window. “Petrov talks too much.”
Sergei chuckles darkly. “That’s what you said before you made the Chicago syndicate apologize to each other.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“They were intelligent.”
Sergei laughs outright this time.
I let the silence settle again for a moment.
Negotiation is mostly preparation.
You listen.
You observe.
You learn where the pressure points are.
Then you apply just enough force to make the right decision feel inevitable.
Sergei clears his throat. “There’s another—”
Before he can finish, my encrypted device pings. A security alert flashes across the screen, instantly opening a live location map. My eyes narrow.
The pin shows a sudden deviation from its usual route. A sharp curve in her trajectory. Something is off. Very off.
The pin is Ellie Carver. My Ellie.
“Something’s up,” I say, tapping Sergei’s shoulders and sliding the device toward him. “Ellie isn’t headed home.”
Sergei leans forward, eyes on the map. “What?”
I tap the screen to zoom in. The GPS shows a small but sharp detour—she hasn’t taken any usual alternate routes. My mind calculates the odds. Too precise to be a coincidence.
“Change route,” I order. “Find her now.”
The tires catch the asphalt with a shrill screech as Sergei swings the SUV sharply onto the route indicated by the map.
“Traffic cams,” I murmur, pulling my tablet from its mount. The city grid flashes across the screen, each camera feed live. Sergei inputs the intersection coordinates.
Seconds later—ninety, exactly ninety seconds—he spots a black sedan weaving slightly, almost too controlled, a full block ahead. I tap my tablet to enlarge the feed.
“Eastern plate modification,” I mutter. “Not local.”
I trace the car on the map, noting its direction, speed, and proximity to Ellie’s location.
“Location?” I bark.
“Three blocks ahead,” Sergei replies, voice tight. “She’s on Main Street—heading into an industrial stretch.”
“Find her,” I command again, eyes fixed on the screen. “Don’t lose her.”
“Yes, Boss!” Sergei slams on the brakes briefly, then accelerates as he maneuvers the SUV down a parallel street, cutting off the sedan’s potential escape routes.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now let’s see who’s playing with fire.”
The SUV accelerates into the night.
As we close the distance on the black sedan, I feel the old pulse, the cold precision, the lethal calm I’ve carried for years, my psyche slipping back into that of a mindless killer.
It’s hard to shake off.
Ellie Carver.
Mine.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
She doesn’t even know me.
But I know her. Very well.
Her location is pinned on my phone at all times. I know where she is, what she’s doing, even how fast she walks. Every movement cataloged, every pattern noted.
This obsession began months ago.
I stumbled across her research paper online—her analysis of coded criminal speech. Her linguistic algorithm. It fascinated me. Not just academically. Something about the precision, the cleverness, the way she could see through patterns nobody else would even notice—it consumed me.
I told myself it was because she was Raelyn’s best friend. A loose end in my world. Something that could become a problem if ignored. But that wasn’t true.
Months later, I found myself attending one of her public presentations anonymously. Sitting in the back, listening to her voice, watching her hands move, the way her eyes tracked the audience.
Everything about her fascinated me.
Her soft sweater. Precise diction. Intelligent eyes.
Something snapped.
Since that moment, not a day has gone by that she hasn’t been in my mind. Not a day that I haven’t checked on her.
Never once have I reached out. Never.
Until now.
Tonight is about necessity. The people who dared to touch her will regret it.
And yet…I can’t ignore the thought creeping into the back of my mind.
What if someone else discovered her?
What if my rivals know I’ve been watching her?
They would assume—correctly—that she’s leverage.
And leverage is dangerous.
I tighten my grip on the leather armrest.
No one touches what’s mine.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
The sedan ahead swerves slightly, its movements precise, but panicked.
Good. Fear makes mistakes.
I glance at Sergei, reading the tension in his posture. “Stay behind. Don’t let them know we’re on to them. Give them time.”
He nods, hands steady on the wheel.
I’m right.
The car turns sharply into an industrial district—abandoned warehouses, cracked asphalt, flickering streetlights. Bad choice.
I nod at Sergei. “Now!”
He slams the SUV into the side of their sedan.
Metal screeches. Tires spin. The black car careens, slamming into a light pole. Glass shatters. Sparks fly.
The engine dies.
Perfect.
Before the men can fully recover, I’m out. Gun in hand. Every step calculated.
The first man stumbles from the driver’s seat. I don’t hesitate.
One shot. Between the eyes. Clean. Instant.
He drops like a ragdoll. Silence, except for the wind and distant city hum.
The second man moves faster.
He reaches for Ellie, crumpled in the backseat. Clothes wrinkled, hair messy, eyes wide and disoriented.
My blood boils.
Ellie is the most organized person I know. Clothes always perfectly pressed. Hair always neatly styled. Chin always up. Always precise.
And now? She’s terrified.
These men stressed her. Pushed her into chaos.
As the second guy grabs her wrist, I snap it backward without hesitation.
A sharp crack fills the air.
He screams and drops to the pavement, clutching it like a child.
A third man moves to flee.
Sergei is already on him.
I crouch to look at Ellie properly, now that she’s alone in the backseat.
Our eyes meet.
Recognition flickers across hers, and my chest tightens.
She might have seen me somewhere before. My face. My presence. Maybe during one of her presentations. Maybe online. Maybe during one of the Rusnak gatherings she rarely attends.
She sees the blood on my hands.
Her eyes widen, shuddering with fear.
And it hurts.
Hurts more than it should.
I want to reach for her. Want to calm her. Want to tell her it’s okay.
But I don’t.
Because right now, I need her to be alive. And she is.
For the first time in months, I feel a fragile, flickering sense of…responsibility.
Protectiveness. Obsession. Something I can’t—or won’t—name.
I slide the car door fully open.
“Ellie,” I say, voice low, controlled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She flinches slightly, recoiling, but she doesn’t move away.
Then a gunshot cracks through the night.
Ellie jumps, eyes wide.
I turn just in time to see Sergei dropping the third kidnapper who tried to run.
“We have to leave now,” I say.
I reach for Ellie, lifting her gently but firmly from the ground. She struggles weakly, disoriented, her body still trembling.
My eyes sweep over her quickly. No blood. No obvious injury. Just shock.
I check her carefully, each movement precise.
“She’s not wounded,” Sergei says, walking past me toward the SUV.
I ignore him.
My thumb brushes against Ellie’s cheek. Soft. Warm. Alive.
“You’re safe,” I murmur.
The words are quiet. Calm. But my expression—my stance—tells another story.
Possessive. Absolute.
I help her into the backseat, lowering her gently onto the leather. She collapses to the side, unconscious before her body even hits the seat properly.
I lean over, panic twisting my gut for a second.
But her pulse is steady, and her breathing is stable, though slow and shallow.
“Hurry, Sergei. Let’s get her home so the doctor can check her.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I sit back slightly, still close enough to watch her, feeling an almost unbearable tension coil in my chest.
The city lights streak past, a blur of neon and asphalt.
Ellie’s hair falls across her face, and my hand itches to brush it aside, but I don’t. Not yet.
I can’t break the fragile barrier between us yet.
Then Sergei breaks the silence. “You going to tell her you’ve been watching her?”
My jaw tightens. A cold edge cuts through my chest.
“I was waiting,” I say slowly.
A beat passes.
“But now,” I murmur, voice low, almost a growl, “I don’t have the luxury.”
My gaze drops to her face.
And I realize…waiting isn’t an option anymore.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.